


The Long Road to Family

by Oxsix



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, and drabbles, individual character studies and then more general one-shots as time goes on, vague plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-10-28 19:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxsix/pseuds/Oxsix
Summary: After a joking attempt at raising the dead goes unpredictably well, ten Tudor women find themselves in the modern day.Alive again and entirely clueless about the workings of the 21st century, they're left to pick up the pieces of their past lives and fund some way to make meaning from their new beginning, with only the guidance of a bunch of sleep-deprived and equally clueless university students.





	1. A long time for a lie-in

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a fic focusing on how the queens' resurrection came about, and how they adjusted to their new life and slowly became found family trope we all deserve.  
Warnings for mentions of sexual abuse, as well as mentions of miscarriages and other things that happened to the queens. Nothing graphic or explicit though.

None of them had been particularly thrilled with their apparent situation when they had first woken up. Being brought back from the dead is enough of a blow to your entire world view without being told that you’ll also need to reconcile with the past—or future—wives of your deeply flawed husband. 

The culprit of this whole debacle had been some sort of accidental arcane ritual, enacted by a squadron of clueless and sleep-deprived university students—anything to avoid actually thinking about their exams and dissertations. 

Now, trying to resurrect the dead in the vain hope that they could help you pass a history exam might sound like an unwise or immature plan—not the sort of thing a responsible student at a top university would do. But that’s what academia does to people. And it’s not like they had expected it to actually _work_. 

Because building a pentagram out of old history textbooks and the Spice Girls greatest hits definitely shouldn’t have allowed anyone to resurrect centuries-dead ex-queens. And yet, there had been flashing light, harsh gusts of wind and a low, ominous hum. And they were just—there. 

They’d been unconscious at first, the six of them, and somebody had had the good sense to suggest that they separate them into different rooms before they woke up, in case they weren’t too happy to see each other again. 

It had taken several hours and a lot of very smart people banging their heads against a wall to figure out what had happened. And even then, nobody was quite sure how it had worked, only that it had. Despite any and all logic, those six women were, without a shadow of a doubt, the six wives of not-so-beloved king Henry VIII. And each of them was, unsurprisingly, not entirely thrilled with their present situation. 

After finding them each somewhere to live, and doing their best to introduce them to the 21st century, the women were finally left to their own devices, in their odd-looking apartments with a variety of strange objects and utensils. They’d each been given a small, understated device they were told was called a ‘phone’ which would apparently give them access to any information they might want. 

Once all the arrangements had been made, the students, and their poor, long-suffering professors, had breathed a sigh of relief, and resolved to give themselves tomorrow off. 

Their plans were, unfortunately, foiled by the sudden, inexplicable appearance of yet another four women. These four were even harder to make sense of than the others, and it took a lot of research and discussion with the extremely dazed and confused women in question to work out who they were.

And then they started the whole process over again, moving the four bewildered ex-ladies-in-waiting into a small, shared apartment until further notice. They arranged a venue for them all to meet the next day, in the hopes that it might help to figure out just what exactly to do with them all. Renting seven flats in London was not particularly cost-effective, after all. 

As a small upside to this entire affair, they did all manage to fall asleep in record time the following night, exhausted from the weight if such sudden and unexpected responsibility. But for the now ten women, that first night doesn’t see them getting much rest. 

Not that they really need it. 500 years is more than enough time for a lie-in.


	2. What Is Mercifully Unchanged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalina learns that some things are best left undiscovered.

Catherine of Aragon sits by the slightly open window of her apartment, the bright lights and constant noise of modern day London drifting in with the night air. The breeze is cold, but she’s grown used to that by now. She has a mug of hot tea in her hands; she'd gone rifling through the cabinets in the kitchen looking for something to drink, and the box had informed her that this ‘chamomile' flavour was supposed to be calming. A nice promise but she wasn’t sure it was working quite like she’d hoped.

  
Lord knows she needs it right now. When she’d been told that her new ‘phone’ would let her find out about anything she liked, she’d been hopeful. Excited, even, to find out what had happened after her death. She’d started by exploring her own legacy, and after finding out that there were still people who left flowers and pomegranates at her place of rest, even to this day, she’d felt a genuine warmth spread through her. After so long, there were still people who cared for her story and showed their support in such a sweet, quiet and heartfelt way. Paying tribute to a woman long dead.

  
She was hoping to find something more constant; something unchanging in this modern world. Everything seemed so bizarre and unfamiliar now, even her own body was vastly different. She had no real complaints, only that it was an awfully odd thing to get adjust to. Seeing a brand new face in the mirror all the time. This woman she had never met staring back at her.

  
More frustratingly, she still hadn’t quite gotten then hang of her new height. She’d been fairly small in stature the first time around, and now she found herself occupying a body that was much taller. So far, she had already broken a mug, and banged her head on the table while she knelt down to clean up the mess. She had always been so careful, composed and self aware. And how here she was, tearing the place down with limbs that were longer than she remembered. Still, she thought she might like being tall, once she’d grown accustomed to it.

  
She moved on to reading through the ‘wikipedia’ pages of the five women who'd followed her, still feeling a slight twinge of anger at the fact that there had been so many of them in the first place. But reading through each page in succession, it faded to a dull sympathy. Even for Boleyn, who she still held some contempt for, had not deserved such poor treatment. In contrast to her fading anger towards the others, her anger at her husband only grew as she read. She had loved him, for her time. But the more she discovered the colder her feelings for him became.

He’d never deserved her.

  
He hadn’t deserved any of them.

  
The newfound hatred for her ex-lover had spurred her on through her reading, overshadowing her trepidation at the prospect of meeting the other four. As the fire grew in her gut, her sympathy for the other grew too. With a bitter taste in her mouth, she moved on, suddenly filled with the desire to know what had come after him.

  
Unsurprisingly, the all-important son had inherited the throne first. But, in an unexpected twist, he had died fairly young. He'd opted to hand the throne to some distant relative rather than let it pass to his Catholic sister- typical. From what she’d already read, the distinction didn’t matter so much to most people nowadays. It was odd to think how deep the divide had been back then. How important it had been to her, even.

  
She wasn’t sure how she felt, now. Her old views still held a place in her heart. But how could she stand so staunchly behind it all now that she herself had come back from the dead? She would certainly need to be widening her world view. But that didn’t have to stop her from holding her faith close to her.

  
Lady Jane Grey, the poor thing, hadn’t lasted long on the throne. No, she was overthrown and swiftly executed. Catherine found herself feeling sorry for her, too. It seemed her newfound self had an even larger capacity for pity. Looking at the events if her past, now so distant from them in the present day, things seemed to take Anna new weight. She realised, looking at it through the cold blue light of this device, how pretty these noble disputes had been. Arguments over the specifics of religion and monarchy, tearing down so many lives in their wake.

  
She saw the name of England’s next monarch written in blue. She remembers her girl, several lifetimes ago. How bright and fiery she was, endowed with her mother’s ability to command a room, even in spite of her (formerly) small stature. She had been so determined, so full of fire. She had always maintained a quiet strength even when she was mistreated, deemed illegitimate, and cast aside. She smiled, thinking back to some of the smaller moments they had had together, when there were no royal expectations or courtly requirements of them.

They would sneak off to some quiet area of the grounds, or just to the little window in Mary’s chambers, and look at the stars. The sheer numbers of them, pinpoints of brightness spread across the black sky. She would teach Mary what little she knew of astronomy and they would make up stories about the constellations.

  
As she gazed briefly up at the moon, which was mercifully unchanged, she’d tapped the link to the next page: Mary I of England. As she read the introduction her eyes were drawn to two words written in bold. “Bloody Mary". She was confused at first. She scrolled down the page, skimming everything as quickly as she could until she reached a section titled ‘legacy'.

  
As her eyes raced down the page, she understood the true weight of the nickname. The penny dropped, and with it, Catherine’s heart sank. She clutched her mug tightly, its warmth seeping away faster than she expected.

She scrolled and scrolled and scrolled.

  
Her heart ached but she couldn’t bring herself to stop reading. 283 people dead. Mostly burned alive. Even more forced into exile. How can reconcile that with the sweet, intelligent girl she had raised? How could reconcile it with herself?

  
Slowly, she became aware of the tears streaming down her face. She felt numb, and yet at the same time overwhelmed. Her hands shook. She put the phone down, moved to the kitchen and boiled the kettle again. She leaned against the bench and let out a shallow breath before making herself another mug.

  
—

  
Now, she sits by the window, holding a fresh mug. Its scalding, and her hand hurts from holding it. She takes a small sip, ignoring how it hurts her lips. She exhales and looks out at the sky again. She says a silent prayer for her daughter, and then remembers all the people who suffered at her hands. She prays for them too.

  
She wonders if it was somehow her own fault. That thought sticks with her above all others. Perhaps she should not have pushed her faith so much. Or put up so much of a fight. Perhaps if she had given Henry what he wanted, he would never have cast her aside, and Mary with her. Had she done enough? She didn’t feel like it.

  
She thinks back to her last moments, silently wishing she could see her daughter again, longing further to be there in her final moments. She remembers Maria, her oldest and most beloved friend. Maria who’d risked so much just to be there for her. Maria’s eyes, looking down into hers, guiding her gently away, and easing her pain in that final hour. The warmth of her friends hand in hers, and the warmth of the smile she’d given her, telling her everything would be okay. Willing her to go softly, comfortably, if it must be her time to go. Her hand twitches and she wonders what became of her closest lady in waiting.

  
She doesn’t pick up the phone. She doesn’t want to know. She can’t let anything ruin Maria for her, not now.

  
In the sky, the moon is full, and it looks just the same as it always has.

  
But the city’s lights are bright and blinding; she cant quite see the stars anymore.


	3. The Heart and Stomach of a Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne Boleyn negotiates her place in the modern world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not as happy with this chapter as some of the others, but I have a lot of different ideas about Anne and I'm not sure if they'll come across quite how I want them to.

From the moment she is left alone, Anne Boleyn thinks about looking herself up. She thinks about it a lot. She sits across the room, staring intently at the phone, as if her gaze could burn a hole through the table it sat on. She agonises over it, wonders if knowing the truth would be worth the pain it might cause her. Whether she might read something good, or if her findings might be as awful as her past experiences have led her to expect. She wonders how people have remembered her. She knows how much vitriol the country had for her back then. But surely people would view her more fairly now, if what the people who'd guided her when she woke up had told her was true.

Society had changed. Things weren't perfect, sure, but they were a world better than when Anne had been around the first time. Surely, then, people would be able to see the truth that the problem in Henry's first marriage had not been Anne, but Henry himself. Considering the many wives who'd come after her, that much should be clear. 

If Anne was a temptress for taking an opportunity everyone around her had pressured her into, what did that make him?

There was a whole rainbow of colourful words Anne could think of for what he was.

Ultimately, she decides it might be a bad idea.

So instead, she moves over and presses the button on the large black box mounted to the wall—a 'television'—like the woman had shown her earlier. It flickers on, illuminating the room around her; she had been so deep in thought she hadn't even noticed it had gotten dark.

Immediately, Anne is struck by how odd the whole thing is. She knows she can change the channel with the buttons, but she doesn't know enough to know what to change it to. So she leaves it how it is. 

It shows people sitting around with a brightly coloured backdrop. They're arranged in two teams, from the introduction she's just caught the tail end of, with a central 'presenter' in the middle. Anne has very little idea what they're talking about, but it's an opportunity to learn, she supposes.

There's more women present than men, surprisingly, one team made up entirely of women, even. They use language she's not entirely familiar with in places, but she can guess the general meaning. The men are throwing jokes and insults left and right, and the women are giving just as good as they get.

Their outspoken manner and insulting comments make Anne tense up a little. In her experience it was dangerous to speak to men like that. But the men are, laughing, and the women are too. 

They mock celebrities, royalty and political figures alike, making comments that could get a person executed in her time.

And she would know. 

But the audience seems to love it, and she can't stop herself from laughing along in places, too, despite a complete lack of context. She's seen court jesters and the like, so this must be some reworked version of the same concept. 

Watching how freely and openly they all discuss such matters, Anne feels a little flutter of excitement in her chest, and she can't help but feel a bit disappointed when an advertising break interrupts her reverie.

She likes the women on the show, how confident they are, how freely they discuss the same topics that brought her distasteful glances and the hatred of an entire country, once upon a time. They talk about their experiences as women, and they voice their opinions without fear. Nobody stops them, or tell them to watch their mouths, or threatens them with execution.

Maybe things have changed, then.

Maybe, in this new time, she can be herself without fear. Voice her thoughts, act on her own desires, and mock who she likes without having to worry about being accused of treason.

* * *

The next morning, before she leaves, Anne finally works up the courage to do it. 

As she reads the pages and pages written about her online, she's not sure how to feel. Of all six, she's the most prominent of his wives in popular culture. Not the longest married, or the longest living, but certainly the subject of the most debate. She's almost an icon culturally, so easily recognised and referenced. 

But being remembered so much makes her feel oddly... vulnerable. So much of her being is up for discussion and debate, and while there's both good and bad, it still feels her with a deep sense of anxiety. The knowledge that there are people out there who have studied and theorised about parts of her life she might not even remember herself. The awful, exposing fear of being known.

But, there are also those who debate the truth of the accusation levied against her, and how they showed the struggles women faced in her time. Who discuss how much agency Anne really had in what had happened to her, and how much had been down to the machinations of others. How her voice had been amplified and yet stifled at the same time. Thrown straight into public view and vilified, dragged through the mud until she was no linger useful. How a world of nobility, courtiers and social climbing had brought about her downfall.

There are a number of people out there who sympathise with her, who genuinely care about her and her legacy. And as awful and unforgiving as the tides of history may be; there are people who love her, who admire her. 

And if those people can care about her, on the other side of hundreds of years, then perhaps she is worthy of that. Nobody is here whispering in her ear, urging her to do things she doesn't want to do or chastising her for being too much of this, too little of that. There are no rules or expectations left to follow. She's free of all that, now.

And then there's the added, pleasant surprise of knowing that her little girl grew up to be a queen; one of the most beloved monarchs England has ever had, at that. She may not have been around for her as long as she would have liked, but her little Elizabeth turned out alright. 

_"I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too"._

Reading the words of her own daughter, and seeing the portraits, the celebrations of her as a ruler, Anne's heart swells with pride. Something good had come of her ordeal, at least.

If her daughter could be a queen of the country, unmarried and without a dynasty, but still beloved centuries later, then Anne will, in a break from traditional family structure, follow in her child's footsteps.

She leaves the apartment with her phone in hand, directions displayed to the small studio where they're all supposed to meet. She wonders who will be there first. She still feels some apprehension at the prospect of meeting them all, particularly Jane and Catherine. She's still conscious of what people might think of her. She isn't sure if she's ready to bare every part of herself just yet. But for now, there's a spring in her step.

For today, people can think what they like. She's going to be more of herself than she has been for a long time. She may still have her guard up, but she's going to be herself. Completely, unequivocally, herself. She'll take a leaf out of her daughter's book; walk with confidence. With the heart and stomach of a King.

No. A Queen. 

It's Anne's turn this time around, and she's going to be whoever she wants to be. 


	4. Enough Love to Give

Jane Seymour is trying to make sense of where, or rather, when, she now finds herself. Centuries, apparently, after her own death.

She had been promised so much, as queen. She was supposed to be the beloved matriarch of a long-lived dynasty. One that would change the course of England's history for the better.

In hindsight, her time as queen had been much more short-lived than expected. She'd tried to accomplish something in her short time—to steer her husband towards more traditional religious ideals, to have Mary restored to the succession, or to have Henry forgive the rebels of the Pilgrimage of Grace. Not much of that had come about, in the end

She'd given the King what he had wanted more than anything—an heir. And then she had gone and died. Never even had the chance to reap the benefits.

In her absence, both of her brothers had leeched from her legacy to prop up their own goals. And both had met their downfalls because of it. She didn't spare them much pity for that. The scheming streak ran in the family, it seemed. And it had caught up to her in the end, too.

Henry had mourned her so deeply, she read, that he spent months in black, and had apparently 'let himself go' rather drastically. After his death, he was buried alongside her. When she had died, she would have wanted this. Now she's not so sure. It was certainly something of an insult to the wives that came after her. For a moment, she feels smug satisfaction rise in her stomach.

And then it's quickly overshadowed by a pervasive sense of guilt. All of that, everything she had gone through, everything she put up with. All the scheming—some on her part, some on the parts of others—and where had it gotten her? Straight to an early grave, never to hold her new-born son.

Maybe she had deserved it, then. She almost feels foolish, but she's not sure how much choice she had.

Still, perhaps she could have said no. Could have denied all of the people whose plans relied on her actions, her presence at court. Whose grand plots placed her at the centre, playing her part as the good wife, keeping herself out of trouble, submitting to the will of the King, as his previous wives had not.

And how much blood had been spilled? It'd gotten the Boleyn girl killed. She hadn't lost much sleep over it back then. But now she feels and awful twinge of guilt. It rested in her chest, weighing her down. She feels terrible, and she deserves to, she thinks.She had hurt others back then, hadn't she?

Perhaps she was being punished for it now. She isn't sure where all of this newfound guilt and uncertainty have come from. But she hangs onto them, clings to them. Maybe this is her chance for something better. Maybe now, she can fix what she did in the past. She hopes that this feeling signifies a chance at something new; something better, something real. 

She had been so cold, in her way, back then. Hidden behind her reserved image. Stone-hearted. She had avoided thinking about the things she couldn't change. She had kept her mouth shut and held back her own thoughts; gone out of her way to bend to his will. All of this, she thought, for her love of him.

And how much had _he_ really loved _her_ anyway? With the veiled threats he made, the grim reminders of the fates of his previous wives. Maybe he had seen it as love. She had too, back then. 

But she isn't sure it was love any more.

She isn't sure if she'd ever had much in the way of real love.

No, she had loved her son. She still does, with every inch of her being. More than anything. Even in the short time she had been given to know him. She feels that love now, as a sort of grief. She isn't sure if you can technically grieve for someone who outlived you. But, like hers, her son's precious life had been cut short. Ironically enough, Edward hardly got the chance to be a king himself. After all of his father's desperation for a son.

And reading about him now, she can't help but love Edward. All the distance time and death have put between them, she loves her son. She always will. She only hopes he knew it then, in some small way. That he was loved. Wholly and unconditionally.

She doesn't think she feels that for Henry. She had loved him, she thought. He had meant so much to her. But the more she thought about it, the more she doubted. And it hurt. Had she not been worthy of real, genuine love?

She hopes for herself, now, too. That maybe, in this second chance at life that she's been given, she might find something real and true. Maybe this time, someone might care for her honestly, openly, for herself and not for some ideal she pretends to be.

Tomorrow will be her chance to try again. She'll start by trying to make things better with the other five. Boleyn won't be happy to see her, she knows that. But she feels an obligation to offer her an apology, at least. Even if it is unwanted. She'll give everything she can tomorrow, for these women. Give all the love she can, if it's welcomed. And just maybe, she might receive some back.

And she has so, so much love to give.


	5. Friends in Unlikely Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna has always had a knack for making unlikely friends.

Anna of Cleves has always known how to work people. How to make a good impression and keep people on her side, even in tricky situations. She'd only made a poor impression once in her life, and she had made sure to never repeat her mistake. She knows how to find friends in unlikely places. She's never been a fan of manipulation, but when needed, she knows exactly which buttons to press and which egos to stroke to keep herself safe and get what she needs.

She doesn't like it, but she's always known how to play the game to survive. And in the end, it had gotten her a decent innings. She'd made a pretty good life for herself, all things considered.

But always undercut by a sense of guilt.

She wonders, as she often did, even back then, how things might have gone for her if she had not been quite so adaptable. If she had been more principled, stood firm and fought for herself. Maybe she would have remained a queen. Maybe she could have saved Katherine.

Poor Katherine.

Or maybe she would have lost her head, too.

That's what she had feared. Anna had looked at the examples set before her, of how each of his previous wives had acted, and where it had gotten them.

She could argue, stand up for herself; and she could die alone in some cold, empty manor. Or she could be executed, have her name slandered and dragged through the mud. Or even, in the best case scenario, he might listen to her. Keep her as queen. She could bear his children like she was expected to. And she could end up dead just the same. 

Or maybe this was her 'out'. A golden opportunity to take what she had gained and cut her losses while things were still going her way.

And she'd taken it. 

And Katherine had taken her place. If she'd known how things would end, she might not have done it. 

She'd been too young, Far too young. And Anna had been too. She knew her friend had needed help, but there was so little she could do for her, even with the skills she'd developed. She knew how to save herself. But she'd never learned how to save somebody else.

She feels herself thinking in circles, round and round her own head. She'd barely registered her own pacing around the apartment she'd been given until now, catching herself in the kitchen, circling the small dining table in the centre of the room.

It's too quiet here. Too empty, cold and dark. 

She probably shouldn't be alone right now, she thinks. She's spent too long alone already. Alone, in lavish palaces and beautiful ballrooms. Surrounded by courtiers, servants, 'friends'. 

But still so alone.

She doesn't want to be alone anymore. She wants to talk. To discuss events, ideas, politics. She wants to laugh, to shout, to dance, with people who really cared for her.

She misses Katherine, as she was. So genuine, open and kind. She loved outwardly, with her heart on her sleeve. She had already dealt with so much in her early life, and yet she still smiled as if she'd never felt joy before, laughed as if she'd never known mirth.

And Katherine had been so kind to her, all Anna wanted was to keep her smiling, keep her laughing, let her forget about the things she'd been through, if only for a short while. Katherine was one of the few people who Anna felt cared for her in a real sense.

No diplomacy or politics behind it. Katherine held no false pretences. She cared for Anna and Anna cared for her. And in the end, Anna had lost her unlikely friend.

And there she goes again. Thinking. Thinking too much.

She needs someone. She needs to talk. She can't be alone anymore. Not in this strange place, in this strange new world, already so far removed from her home.

So she looks to her 'phone.' She looks for the contacts the students had entered in for her. One labelled "Toby- FOR EMERGENCYSS!!!1!!" 

She decided it wasn't quite an emergency, in truth. So she ignores it, and all the other names of the people who'd brought her here, shown her around. And instead, she skips straight to the five other numbers they'd given her, which were, unfortunately, not yet labelled.

This might be an awful idea. In fact, it definitely was. It certainly wouldn't be a good way to make a first impression on these new women she knew fairly little of. But, Anna didn't think she cared about that so much right now. What did first impressions matter, really? She would see them in the morning anyway, and she'd do her damage control then. 

It would be fine, really. 

Probably.

Maybe?

Unable to bare her own over-thinking any longer, she taps on the first number, and hears the low ringing sound start to come from the phone. She anxiously waits for someone to pick up, as it rings a few more times than she'd like. 

Finally, as she feels like she can't quite take the suspense any more, there's a muffled rustling and someone answers.

"Umm... hello?"

She's definitely given up on the good first impressions.

"Hello," comes the reply, hesitant but gentle, "who is this?"

"Oh, um, sorry..." Anna stumbles on her words and silently curses herself. She used to be good at this. "I'm Anna...of Cleves, I mean."

"Ah." There's some quiet on the other end of the line. The silence feels overwhelming as she worries if she has done something wrong. "You came next, right? Sorry, um- Jane. Jane Seymour."

_Scheiße._

"Oh, well- yes, I suppose..." She isn't sure what else to say, and she kind of wants to end this absolute mess of a conversation before it gets any worse. "Sorry, I- I was trying to talk to Katherine. Howard, I mean. I'll- let you go, then, I suppose."

"I- um, yes. Goodbye then. I'll see you tomorrow, I suppose."

"Tomorrow, yeah. Bye." Anna hangs up before she can dig a bigger hole for herself.

And then she takes a moment to collect herself. Well, at least her expectations had already been lowered. She really, really hopes Katherine won't be the last number she presses.

Once she's managed to calm herself down, she takes a final deep breath and presses the second saved number.

The phone rings. It rings low, and loud, the sound long and drawn out, tugging directly on Anna's nerves. And it rings a lot longer than the last time. There's no answer at all, actually. Must have been distracted. She wonders who is on the other end, and what they were doing that they didn't answer at all.

Though, she's not really sure that she would have answered herself if the situation were reversed. She moves onto the next number, and it's much, much worse than the last call.

In fact, it's excruciating. The woman on the other end has clearly had an even worse night than Anna. Her voice is shaky and thick with tears, and she struggles to get through an entire sentence in her response to Anna. She doesn't want to talk, evidently enough. Anna finishes the exchange as quickly as she can, feeling uncomfortable at the vividness of this unfamiliar woman's pain, even on the other side of the phone. 

She hangs up. She never get the other's name. But she thinks, from the mournful and uncertain tone of her voice, she knows who it is.

She changes the name in her phone accordingly, and moves on again.

Three down. Surely Katherine must be next? 

Anna presses the number, hoping against hope that her friend will be on the other line. The other person picks up rather quickly. Much quicker than the last two.

"Hi, who's this?" The voice on the other side beats Anna to it. Its soft, and sounds slightly worn, but has clearly had more time to recover from crying than the last. There's a hint of an accent too, but Anna's never really had a grasp of England and it's many dialects.

"Hi, it's um- it's Anna."

"Cleves, yeah? I'm Catherine." Anna hesitates for a moment.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific..."

"Oh," There's a beat. "Yeah, sorry- Parr. Catherine Parr. Can't say I expected a call from you."

"Oh- yeah, sorry. I was trying to speak to Katherine. Sorry- Howard, I mean. I can see this becoming a bit of problem."

"Definitely! What is it with Catherine's anyway? Do you reckon he did it deliberately?"

Anna laughs. It's odd, she didn't expect Parr to be so talkative. Perhaps she'd been just as lonely as Anna had. Perhaps she had been just as in need of a distraction.

And Anna is grateful. She talks to Catherine for what feels like ages, but the time passes easily as the two fall into a surprisingly effortless back-and-forth. The two seem to click, almost immediately, and it feels so easy to talk to her. Maybe it's just been so long for the two of them, that they can't help but savour each other's company.

Either way, Anna can't help but feel relieved, as she and Parr finally hang up, after a long, winding conversation about the things they've learned about the new world so far.

The silence of her apartment doesn't feel quite so empty or cold any more. 

And then it's broken by the sound of someone knocking at the door. And as she moves to answer, Anna thinks she may not need to use the last number.

When she finally manages to work out the locks of her new door, she doesn't recognise the girl on the other side. And yet she does, all the same. And she smiles. It's just the face she'd hoped to see.

She invites her old friend in, and her world feels warm again.

She isn't worried so much about tomorrow. After all, she's always been able to find friends in unlikely places.


	6. alone, but not this time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katherine is alone again, and she wonders if anyone will ever come for her.

Katherine Howard sits alone in her flat.

She sits on the floor, with her back pressed against the cold leather sofa behind her. It's dark. She hadn't really noticed the time passing so quickly. She should get up and turn the lights on. But she doesn't. The darkness around her feels cloying, and she feels like the shadows are closing in on her. Stealing her breath away.

She can't _breathe._

Everything feels wrong. Why is she here? What does it mean? 

She was never equipped to deal with anything like this. It's overwhelming, as if she doesn't have enough on her mind without the addition of a new, future world to navigate. 

The flat is too small. She knows she could get up, and walk around it. But she can't. Her intent to move doesn't seem to translate into her body obeying her will. It stays put. She continues to stare blankly at the little red light from the television in the corner.

She wonders if she should put it on; if it might help to distract her, take her away from the clawing, pervasive memories desperately trying to force their way into the front of her mind. She tries to push them back but they scream at her, demand her attention.

The effort it takes to keep them away seems to physically _hurt. _

Her breathing becomes thinner and frailer. 

She doesn't want to remember, she only wants to shut herself off. It's too much, years of memories rushing in all at once. She's cold, but she's sweating at the same time. Her throat feels itchy and dry as she tries to suck in enough air to keep herself going. It hurts, but her head hurts even more. 

She screws her eyes shut, but it doesn't make much difference from the already dark room. 

She wants to forget but she's so, so utterly alone right now. All she wants is to ignore it all, to shut it out and pretend it never happened, but every moment of her past life clings to her subconscious. 

Hands, touching her in places she never asked for, and whispered words promising 'love.' Love Katherine never really sees. All the time she hopes, all the times she prays that things might be different, that someone might mean it this time.

But there's no one. She's all alone and they all promise love but they never give it. They talk and they lie and they make empty promises. They leave her there and it's cold and it's dark. They leave her there to die. She cries, quietly, to herself, and nobody comes to help. Nobody ever did. 

Her chest feels tighter and tighter, with some twisted sense of grief. 

She's alone. 

It's dark, and the room isn't really all that small, but it's too small, and it's empty and it's cold.

And she's alone.

Again.

She rocks forward, holding her knees close to her chest as silent sobs wrack her body. She tries, as hard as she can right now, when she's so scared, and in such an unfamiliar environment. Nothing about her surroundings feels right. Its all new, all different.

It isn't what she knows. It's all different, and yet it feels the same. All the same.

It's like she's there all over again. In the tower. Katherine knows, logically, that it isn't the same. Everything is wildly different, and every little detail contrast deeply with the world of her time. The bright lights that reflect in through the window, bringing the slightest amount of light to the room. The fuzzy background noise of 'cars' humming and honking on the streets outside. All so unfamiliar and new.

And yet Katherine can't bring herself back to the present. Future?

She just feels it all again. The fear, the anxiety, the unwanted touch, the cold, and the final, sharp swing that has her leap up from her position on the floor.

* * *

She's not sure where she's going, she only know that she can't stay here any longer. She needs to go, to walk, run. She just wants to get away.

But she doesn't know where to run to escape her own memories. 

She pulls on a coat she'd been left with, and pockets the 'phone' they'd given her. She could use it, but she doesn't know what she would even do with it.

She needs an escape, a distraction, a reason not to think for a while. All she wants is for this feeling to go away. The feeling that it's all going to happen all over again.

She'd been told that beheading was abolished as a means of execution in 1973. And that the last executions in the UK were in 1964. But she hasn't been around that long. It doesn't feel like any time has passed. She doesn't feel far enough away. It doesn't feel long enough ago.

She feels like it's following her. She doesn't know what, but this pervasive feeling drags at her, pulls at her edges as if trying to envelope her. 

She has to get out. She throws the front door open, and steps out into the hallway. The lights flicker on, emitting a low hum, and it scares Katherine for a moment. That's probably normal, she thinks, but it still puts her on edge.

She thinks about heading out for real, onto the streets, but the though scares her too much. So many unfamiliar people, unfamiliar places. She couldn't convince herself she wouldn't somehow stumble her way back to her old time.

She wrapped her arms around herself, leaning against the wall outside her flat for support.

There's a tightness in her chest as it feels like it constricts in on herself.

Trying to shut out the feelings, she looks at the number on the door of her room. Tries to commit it to memory. And then she resorts to taking a photo of it on her phone, unable to think clearly as her mind seems to race with thoughts she'd rather leave behind.

She tries to catch her breath, but everything feels the same. 

She's still alone. Still alone after all this time.

She closes her eyes, tries to think in a way that will pull her out of this dark, spiralling mess. 

She needs something. She needs someone to be there. She cant be there, alone, any more. In the dark, and the cold. Somewhere she doesn't want to be. The four walls enclosing her feel to small. She feels trapped. 

She's scared and she's alone and why will no one come for her? Why will no one come when they all promised her love? Why had she been promised so much and left for dead when she wasn't of use? She doesn't know where to go, or what to do. 

She's scared of doing something wrong. She's scared of getting in trouble again. She just knows that if she does something wrong these new people will change their minds about her, too. That they'll go back on their promises that they would help; that they would be there.

She has a number to call for emergencies, and the panic she feels right now certainly feels like one. But she doesn't trust her gut anymore. She doesn't think anyone will come. 

Why would they? Nobody ever had before. Not when she needed them. Not even-

No. She couldn't blame her, it wasn't her fault. But it wasn't Katherine's either. She hadn't done anything wrong, she hadn't!

She repeated it to herself, over and over. She hadn't done anything wrong. She had tried her best, she had never asked for any of it. She'd been trapped. Over and over again. Stuck in places and situations she didn't want.

She slides down the wall and sits, trying to regain her breath and suppress the tears that flow down her cheeks.

She needs someone. Anyone. Someone to talk to, to hold her, to ground her in now. To keep her here, out of the past, out of her endless, whirling thoughts that won't leave her be.

Pulling herself up from the ground with a newfound sense of urgency, she moves toward the next flat over from hers.

She doesn't know who they put across the hall, only that she heard them bring someone in there earlier. She hadn't recognised the voice, but then she wouldn't, would she? She didn't recognise her own face, after all. And even if it wasn't who she hoped it was, anything would be better than being so awfully, hopelessly alone.

She moves to the door, making the effort to even out her breaths so as not to worry whoever is on the other side. She knocks, as hard as she can, but her limbs are fairly weak right now, her whole body feeling drained. 

After an agonising few moments, the door pulls open. Again, she doesn't recognise the girl who opens it. But the way her expression softens when she sees Katherine, and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, tells her things will be okay.

Her friend brings her inside, rubbing a thumb softly along her shoulder and pulling her gently int a hug as the door closed behind them.

And Katherine lets herself cry, loud, long sobs, that hurt, but that feel much better out than when she kept them in. She cries openly into her friends arms, and she is so, so relieved.

And when her breaths finally even out and her eyes begin to dry, Anna wipes away the final few tears from her face. She guide her to sit down with her, and she leans, gently, against Katherine's side. And they stay that way for the rest of the night, after Anna pulls the soft throw that had been draped over the back of the couch on top of them.

They whisper to each other quietly into the small hours of the morning, as orange-tinted sunshine begins to stream through the gaps in the curtains.

She's grateful to see her friend again, and her heart feels full at the fact that someone is there for her this time. And just maybe; they'll be there for good, now.

The light, comfortable contact they share keeps her in the moment. It reminds her that she is here, she is safe, she is loved. For real, this time. And it's touch that she wants, that she doesn't want to run from. She leans into it heavily, allowing all her weight to push lightly against her old friend. She relaxes, at last.

And she thinks that, perhaps, this time around she won't be quite so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof this one was hard to write. But I wanted to make sure it ended on a more hopeful note, at least, because Kitty deserves happiness, even if it takes a little while.


	7. The hole where Something should be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine learns that absence cuts deepest.

Catherine Parr has always been enthused by the prospect of knowledge. The discovery of new information is one of her favourite things, and the new device she now possesses will give her access to a wealth of it. The pursuit of deeper understanding, of discussion, interpretation and debate is her favourite pastime. 

Once she gets the hang of it's workings, she uses the device to read about all manner of things. She reads about the past, about how history has progressed since her death, and she is proud, when she first reads about Elizabeth and her long, celebrated reign. 

She devours page after page, about science, history, religion, how drastically the world has changed; ploughs through articles about modern society and politics. They fill her with excitement and a desperate drive to know more, to absorb every detail of the transformed world she has woken up in. She wants to know more, more, more. And her every question—even the ones she knows, in the back of her mind, are daft—comes with a comprehensive answer and a range of other suggested sources and ides for her to explore.

As new and confusing as the world seems to be, she can think of nothing better than to see it all, and understand it all. She feels nothing short of blessed to be reborn in this new future. To be given this chance to see, experience and live all over again in a world that seems to be at least a little better than the one she left behind. 

She decides to reminisce, a little, about her past life, if only to remember where she came from. And in a moment of desperate anticipation, she remembers the last memories of her time there. The pain, the fear, and the desperate, aching hope that she would make it through this, just to hold her little girl in her arms.

She hovers over the little, blue name beneath her own portrait in the article. She ignores the name above it—the first baron Seymour of Sudeley—the distance time has put between them has culled any remaining affections she might have had for that man and his awful actions; the one she'd been foolish enough to trust.

Swallowing her excitement, she taps the name.

And she finds nothing.

Well, not much more than nothing. Less than 1000 words about her little girl. Who'd been left an orphan after her (_bastard_) father's execution, and disappeared from historical record altogether soon after. Historians believe she hadn't lived past the age of two. There's little information on the page other than vague speculation, rumours spread in the decades after Catherine's own death.

And a poem that's believed to reference her daughter.

An 'unfit traveller.' Taken at such an early age.

There is no wealth of information to be found here. Only an emptiness. The absence of what could have been.

Catherine had been prepared for too much information. For learning unpleasant things; to have to grapple with their implications. There's nothing she loves more than delving into an enormous document or negotiating her position on a particularly complex issue. She loses herself in the words, and will spend hours, uninterrupted, making sense of new issues. Every answer found is like a puzzle piece falling into place. A little piece of her world that now makes more sense.

But this absence? A hole where _something _should be, but isn't? It hangs over her, envelopes all other thought. She isn't prepared for absence. 

Catherine puts the phone down. She doesn't read another article that night

* * *

She doesn't look at it again until it buzzes, aggressively loud from its position on the coffee table next to her.

The sound is sharp, and grating, and it pulls her mind from it's wandering. It startles her, and before she can even think about what it might be, she answers it. And she's talking before her mind can even catch up to her mouth.

"Hi, who's this?" The words spill out and she's only half conscious of it.

"Hi, it's um- it's Anna." The voice on the other end of the line is apprehensive, and Catherine understands why—they hadn't known each other particularly well before, but they certainly weren't on the best of terms, either.

For some reason, Catherine can't find it in herself to hold any of that against her. She's just thankful to hear another voice, to know there's someone there.

So she talks. She jokes, and she discusses some of her findings from earlier. She avoids the topic that hangs on the tip of her tongue. She doesn't want to talk about that right now.

They talk about everything; the new world they've found themselves in, the technology, the culture. How different it all is from their past. They talk about what they're most excited to do, now that they're in this new world.

Catherine's lips move so freely and easily, and she feels more open and relaxed than she has in a long time. She's grateful for the company. All the endless, circling thoughts have been stopped in her tracks. And even though the pain remains, somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels relief. 

The conversation focuses her mind, stops it's racing. And when they eventually hang up, the emptiness takes a little longer to creep back in.

* * *

In the morning, she grabs something small to eat—a breakfast bar, the packet says. She doesn't really know what it is, but its sweet, and it's light enough that she can stomach it without feeling ill.

She gets herself dressed, nothing too fanciful; she doesn't yet have a grasp of what styles are popular or proper in the modern day. She does wear trousers, though, which she brings a tiny blip of happiness to her, still fairly low, mood.

It's certainly the biggest highlight of her time since her phone call last night.

She heads out of the house, and towards the location she'd been given. She tried to stop her racing mind in its tracks. Repeating and repeating the same information to her over and over again. Because there just wasn't enough. The lacking. The emptiness of it all bounces around her head. She only hopes that she will find something today. Some semblance of understanding from these women she shares so much in common with, and yet so little all the same.

Anything, she hopes, that can fill this absence within.


	8. Just the Four of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're strangers, but not for long.

The apartment the four of them have been shacked up in is pretty cramped.

It's London, and according to the people who'd brought them here—that means there's very little available in their price range. And so, the four of them are stuck sharing a tiny, two bedroom apartment, with tiny twin beds for each of them.

And, well, it's awkward to say the least. They're strangers, at best, and here they are, jammed together in this brand new world they've found themselves in. As if the concept of resurrection and a world 500 years advanced from the one you knew weren't big enough revelations; they're also stuck experiencing it all with a group of women they barely know. They may have known of each other before, but they had never properly met.

Maria has always been a self-assured woman, probably over-stepping the line now and then, but she feels tense in this environment. She's worried about what they'll think of her. They all served later Queens, it would be understandable if they held some resentment.

Joan and Maggie have both immediately bagsied beds in the larger room_—_it has a view overlooking the street, rather than just the next building over_—_which means that, awkwardly, Maria is going to have to share with Bessie.

Which is a complicated situation in and of itself. 

The four of them are essentially strangers, yes, but with the exception of Maria and Bessie. Maria wasn't really sure what to make of her. They had been extraordinarily close when they'd known each other, but Bessie had been fairly young then, and Maria had a tendency to take the younger ladies under her wing. 

She liked to keep an eye on them; make sure they were safe. Evidently she had failed with Bessie, then.

What had happened with Henry—not an affair, really, she'd been too young for that then—had driven a wedge between the three of them. The birth of Henry Fitzroy had been awful for Catalina, a particularly heavy blow to her self-worth. A symbol of Henry's ability to beget a son, and therefore, it led many to wonder if Catherine was the problem. 

Including the Queen herself. 

It was painful, of course, after so many children lost over the years. And Henry had sent Bessie away, out of some misplaced form of respect for his wife. And Maria never saw her again.

Still, Maria thinks that perhaps it had all been a little unfair. She wishes she could have been there for her then. Could have reached out. She wishes she could have looked out for her properly. But telling the King 'no' never ended well for anyone. There were six very good examples of this that came to mind. But so much of life back then, at court, at least, was about appearances. About public perception.

And so they had remained distant. And proper.

And Maria had never been good at communication. She still isn't, really. She doesn't do well with talking, she never knows how to say what she's feeling. There's so many thoughts and ideas that cloud together in her head, she can't put them into words in a way that satisfies what she means. So, instead, she prefers to show it.

She deals mainly in gestures. The grand, sweeping kind that make her feelings clear, without her having to say anything at all. It was what she had done towards the end of her last life—for Catalina.

She hadn't known how to say what she felt, and she had no way of lessening the pain Henry was putting her through. She didn't have any power, or any say. So she had swallowed her pride and broken the rules in a way she would never normally dare. And she had pushed herself to the limit to be there for her Queen. And as she held her old friend while she took her last breaths, Maria knew her feelings would be understood. Catalina knew Maria cared, and she wouldn't die alone. And that was what mattered. 

So, this time, Maria decides this might be the best way to reach out. Another gesture. A smaller one, perhaps. But a gesture all the same. Trying to explain how she felt about all of this would probably leave her with a headache, and with an very offended Bessie. Things tend to come out wrong when Maria says them. So, she resolves to take action.

It's worked for her before.

* * *

Bessie doesn't know what to make of all of this. It's a lot, to be fair, to wake up and find the whole world completely changed. And, in all honesty, she doesn't want to be _here_, dealing with it all in the company of a group of near-strangers. 

She knows she should talk to them; get to know them a little. But she can't. Something inside her is fighting back. She's scared—truth be told. She hadn't had much in the way of friends, last time. There had only been Anna, who she'd served towards the end. 

Anna was kind-hearted. She was gentle, and had a knack for making everyone in the room love her. It wasn't surprising that she was the only person Bessie had felt truly cared for her. There may have been others before, who'd looked out for her, or even tried to help her—but none of them had stayed.

She had loved her children, too, but even then, she hadn't been able to be as close to them as she wanted. So much of her life was dictated by expectations. She wasn't supposed to be so open and genuinely affectionate. And she'd stayed in line, for fear of the consequences.

Because being a former mistress of the King put her under a lot of scrutiny.

And now she's back to being alone again. Sat by herself on the edge of her mattress—which is too hard. She's not sure if it's such a bad thing. Maybe it's better this way. She wouldn't get hurt, at least. Most of the people who get close to her only hurt her in the end. They told her pretty lies and then left her when she wasn't useful any more.

She should go out there and talk to them; she knows. But she isn't convinced they'll want her. Maggie and Joan seem to have hit it off already—she can hear them laughing from the other room. And Maria hates her. She knows that much. She must. 

Bessie had ruined everything for them. And then she'd been sent away. They must have been glad she was gone. She should never have let Henry near her. But then, how could she have told the King no? He was the _King. _And she was just one of his wife's ladies in waiting. She was no authority in the matter.

So how could she talk to Maria now? 

She hears the door to the bedroom creak open slowly. She looks up to see the woman in question enter. She quickly looks away. She thinks she hear Maria sigh, then. But she's not certain. She turns to gaze out of the window again. She doesn't want to make things awkward between them.

But then she feels a weight settle gently on the bed, just behind where she's sitting. She turns, surprised. Maria is sat on the adjacent side of the bed. A warm cup is pressed into Bessie's hands. It's covered in foam on top, and has a sweet smell. Chocolate. 

Maria smiles at her, gently. Bessie smiles back. Maria clinks their cups together, then looks away, a little embarrassed.

She doesn't know what to say. Neither does Maria, evidently. It doesn't matter. They sit there, together, in an odd but not uncomfortable silence. The golden light of the sunset casts a gentle warmth on them both, and they watch the end of their first day in the new world together.

And they wonder if the next day will bring them closer together.

* * *

Now that she's back, Joan feels somewhat adrift. Her whole life before had been dictated by strict rules and expectations. She had served her queen, she had been a wife, and then she had been a mother. She had never been subject to only her own desires. 

It's both exciting and daunting at the same time. She is free—truly, at last. But she isn't sure what this freedom means, or what to do with it. And in a way, that makes it all the more exhilarating. It's the first time in her life things haven't been laid out for her.

She sits in the living room, on her own at first. The last dregs of yellow sunlight are streaming in through the blinds. It's beautiful; a good introduction to the new world, Joan thinks. It casts stark shadows from the high city buildings, much higher than Joan would have thought possible in her time.

She leans back. Lets out a quiet sigh of contentment. 

And then a little laugh. At the sheer absurdity of her situation. She's not certain this isn't all just an odd dream. Perhaps she's come down with a fever. Or maybe consumption. She could wake up tomorrow back in her old body, and her old life. 

She _could_. But she hopes that's not the case.

This new time is exactly what she needs. A new life; a new start. Beholden to no-one. 

She'd loved Jane, deeply so. And her death had been painful. To watch the life fade so slowly from her. Clinging desperately to the possibility that she might recover, staying by her side to the bitter end with the vain hope she might get through this. Only to have all of those hopes be crushed. And little Edward left without a mother.

She's ready to be in charge of herself this time. Not to serve anyone. 

She's torn on these new women, though. She's felt it before; the pang of losing a loved one. She isn't sure if she can do it again. Perhaps things would be easier if she had nobody to lose. Still, she misses the companionship.

And she can feel herself caving in already.

Earlier, when they'd first been getting their bearings in the flat, she'd walked in on Maggie in their room, softly singing some old tune to herself. She'd been startled by Joan's entrance, and ended up hitting the side of her head on a shelf, and plummeting directly onto the nightstand next to her bed.

What had followed was a flurry of curses and poorly-strung together apologies from both of them. Joan rushed over to take a look at the other girl's head, where a small bump was forming. 

Maggie cradled the top of her head, with a slightly pathetic whimper. The two of them looked at each other then, their frantic energy levelling out a little. 

And Joan couldn't help it. It bubbled up inside her, and she started laughing. And Maggie did, too. Until there were tears streaming down their faces and they could barely breathe.

Joan likes her already, in spite of herself. Her resolve to avoid repeating the pains of her past has faded already. She's going to make the same mistakes all over again. And she's not going to regret it—not even a single bit.

She'll endure it all again, if she has to. The fear, and the hope, and the crushing loss. 

Because it's worth it; she knows.

* * *

Margaret—no, Maggie—has found herself at a bit of a loss. The world around her is so bizarre and new. It's hard to think about her past in the context of how things are now. 

The modern monarchy is an entirely different beast to when she was alive. They're still influential, yes. But they're more public figures than absolute rulers. It's odd, looking at how these things are being talked about, on the 'news' programme that's currently playing. Some of it reminds her very much of her own time. 

The way the actions of certain members of the royal family are constantly dissected, pulled a part and scrutinised. It makes her anxious, in a way. Hearing people debate endlessly about the dress the duchess wore, or how she opened a car door for herself, which apparently goes against royal protocol. 

So the pomp and circumstance she remembers has stayed the same. And even though Maggie knows things are different now, that members of the royal family cannot simply be executed on trumped-up charges any more—she feels nervous for the woman.

It's silly, really. She knows that. But it brings back memories. Ones she'd rather leave behind. About awful, vitriolic words spread about her mistress. About rumours spreading like wildfire, and ending in such an early death. Such an awful death.

She tries to reassure herself. They don't do that any more. She's perfectly safe. But Maggie remembers how many times she had reassured Anne that things would be fine. And she'd been wrong.

Her chest feels tight, and she tries to bury the feelings again. But memories play before her eyes. She doesn't want to go back there, to witness that again. She holds back tears and tries to steady her breathing. She doesn't want to break down now. Joan is sat on the sofa next to her, only half paying attention to the television, and gently bouncing her leg.

She asks if Joan minds her changing the channel. Joan gives a shrug in response.

She takes the odd, black object in her hand, trying to decipher the meanings of all the little buttons. She moves close to the 'television', not sure of how the device works, and holds it close to the little blinking red light. She doesn't know what the buttons mean, so she pushes one of the numbers, and hopes she won't break anything.

The screen flickers as the scene playing out on the television changes. Maggie moves back to sit on the sofa. As she sits, Joan shuffles over to sit closer to her. She gives Maggie a small smile—one that inquires if she is alright. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and smiles back, even if it doesn't quite reach her eyes yet. 

She rests her weight against Joan's side, and the other girl leans into it, too. And they stay there for hours, watching television shows they don't really understand just yet. They share in their confusion, and giggle at the things that don't make sense to them, or that would have been outrageous in their day.

And Maggie feels a little bit lighter, like some weight has been taken from her shoulders. Things might be okay this time.

It's the middle of the night when Bessie and Maria finally emerge from their room. Evidently, they don't feel like sleeping, either. They join Maggie and Joan, sitting on the other small sofa in the room, even more confused by the strange device they're watching.

And that's how the four of them see in the next day, talking and laughing and trying to unravel the workings of this strange new world together. 

Things have changed. They don't have to serve anyone this time. And maybe they can figure out what it all means, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maggie doesn't know how remote controls work cut her some slack.


	9. Reunion Pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this couldn't be more awkward if they'd planned it that way.

As Catherine of Aragon walks toward the destination she'd been given, she can't help but think through every possible unpleasant situation that could occur. Chief among them is that she gets there to find only Anne. She tries to avoid thinking about the discomfort of the two of them reuniting with only them there. It's enough to make her physically cringe.

She works through a number of awkward scenarios in her head, and her mind tries desperately to imagine how it would react in the situation, and how she could get out of there as soon as possible. Her mind has always had that tendency—to overthink, over-analyse. It's caused her plenty pain and stress in the past. And it's followed her into the next life, apparently. 

The door to the building is fairly uninspiring; it's just a small community centre, and not a very well-funded one. Catalina's not really aware of this, though, as she's unfamiliar with the concept of a community centre as whole. All she sees is a squat little brick building, adorned with flyers for a number of events, some of which have already passed. As she approaches, the glass doors open on their own and she jumps a little. This new world doesn't seem to run out of quirks.

With some apprehension, she enters, and does her best to swallow the awful feeling of trepidation that's built up over the course of her journey. She knows she'll be one of the first there; it's only 5:30 am. She'd given up on trying to sleep and opted to turn up early instead. Still, that means she's more likely to be stuck in the awkwardness of trying to interact one-on-one with somebody.

She isn't sure which of the five she thinks will be less uncomfortable. She never really knew any of them except for Anne, and that had been ill-fated.

The woman who _is _waiting there in the room, however, is not any of them. She is the one person Catalina would not have expected, and probably one of the last people she would hope for. But Aragon doesn't know that yet.

She takes stock of this stranger—not someone she recognises, of course. None of them look like their old selves now. She's got dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, and a full fringe. Catalina scans her face for anything that might be familiar; anything that might hint at who she's looking at. She finds nothing.

"Hi." The woman says, voice slightly shaking. Evidently, she's as nervous as Catalina is. 

"Hi. Early morning?" 

"Couldn't sleep." The woman's voice is blunt. She seems to relax a little with Catalina's friendly tone, though.

She lets out a small huff in response. 

"Yeah, me neither. Too much to- Too much of an adjustment, I suppose."

"Yeah, we didn't really sleep, either. The others are still watching TV, I think. I needed some air, so... thought I'd just head out."

"Others?" As far as Catalina had been aware, the six of them had been roomed individually. 

"The other Ladies in Waiting, sorry. Maggie, Joan, Maria? We, um... We came back too. Sorry, we should probably have done introductions by now."

Catalina laughs, but part of her is still fixated on a particular name. Her Maria? Was she back too?

"Yeah, probably."

"Bessie." She holds out a hand. "Bessie Blount."

"Catalina." Her voice is as neutral as it can be. Bessie lowers the hand.

And, for what feels like another five centuries, the two of them stand there. And they stare at each other. And they try to figure out just how the _fuck _they're supposed to react to this. 

Because there's no guidebook for this. No "How To Deal With Being Resurrected 500 Years In The Future And Meeting Your Ex-husband's Mistress Again For Dummies. Neither of the even know where to begin.

So they stand, and they stare. And their minds race.

All of her thinking; her planning, and Catalina had never been prepared for this. It should have occurred to her sooner—she should have been ready for the worst, and here it was. She wants to disappear. She doesn't want to have to negotiate this situation right now. She hasn't slept, and she'd been dead up until yesterday afternoon. She's in no state to deal with this.

But she's here. And there's no getting out of it. 

Bessie. After all this time. She's older now, though Catalina supposes they've all changed in appearance, anyway. She looks the other woman in the eyes—neither of them have been able to break their tense eye-contact yet—and she can almost see that scared teenager all over again.

She's angry. But she's also guilty. And sad. And confused. And- happy? She doesn't know any more. All she knows is it's far too much for one person to feel at once. And, from the look on her face, Bessie is feeling something similar. 

She doesn't know if she wants to scream and shout, or cry, or embrace the other woman. Or punch her in the face. She can't make sense of all the conflicting feelings inside her, so she stand there.

Still.

They play this game of emotional chicken, where they both stand there in stoic silence, and wait for the other to make a move. Neither wants to sacrifice their pride by being the first to react. 

And then she caves. And her arms are around the other woman, and she might be crying but she can't be sure.

"What are you doing?" Bessie is stiff in her arms. 

"I don't know."

"Me neither." Her arms move up, slowly, to return the embrace. 

"Okay."

"Okay."

Neither of them are sure how long they stand there like that, only that they're both _definitely _crying and they aren't entirely certain why.

It's been a long time coming, that's for sure. And they're still going to have a lot to talk about; and argue about. But it's a start. And they need it; both of them. Desperately.

And how can Catalina hate the girl, anyway? She was only one in a long, _long _line of women. She can't exactly hold it against her. If nothing else, her reading has assured her that, had it not been for Bessie, Henry would only have found some other woman to be unfaithful with. It had never been about Bessie. It had always been him.

They don't know how much time passes, but they're interrupted by the entrance of someone new. And, without skipping a beat, they both shift away from each other lightning-fast. Even if they are beginning to make amends, they're both too prideful to let their vulnerability show for someone else.

"Oh. Sorry." The newcomer looks sheepish. Catalina shifts awkwardly.

The new woman is shorter than Catalina, and her curly dark hair is piled on top of her head. Her head is tilted slightly, as she analyses the situation. 

A hand is outstretched towards her. Catalina takes it.

"Cathy. Cathy Parr." She gives a slightly uneasy smile, as she tries to lighten the mood.

* * *

Christ. She's only just got here and she's already made a mess of it. She's never been the best at social interactions. Heated discussions? Yes. She could convince someone that the sky was green, with enough effort. But introductions, and everyday conversation?

She has the urge to dive out of a window. 

"Catherine of Aragon." The taller woman replies. Cathy smiles, though she's still reeling with her fight-or-flight instinct.

"Ah! My namesake, then." 

"Yeah." The other woman smiles back, but the energy between them is still awkward. 

Cathy is incredibly curious about the other woman; she has a million questions she wants to ask, but she doesn't know where to start, and she doesn't want to overstep the boundary between them. 

She doesn't _know _her, after all. She's a stranger, despite being her Goddaughter. There's a bit of something in her—the part that's still a young girl—that wants to reach out. To create that kind of bond between them, but Cathy had never been good at that sort of thing. So she doesn't; not yet, at least.

"Bessie Blount." Says the other woman, who until now had been giving the others the chance to acquaint themselves.

"You're here too?"

"A few of us, yeah. No idea how."

"That's odd."

"All of this is incredibly odd." Catalina cuts in.

There's still an awkward tension between the other two, which Cathy hopes not to find herself in the middle of.

"You're not wrong." Bessie concedes.

Slowly, the silence between them returns. Cathy wants to break it, but she isn't sure what to say. She wants this to be her chance. It's not every day you come back to life. Cathy has to believe that it's happening for a reason, and she wants to seize the opportunity. Why can't she do it? The more she tries to force herself to reach out, the larger the distance between them seems to become.

What was she thinking anyway? Catalina is just a stranger to her and she's going to want rid of her just as much as Bessie.

"Did you guys do any reading last night?" _Stupid. _It's not exactly the most novel way to continue the conversation, and both of the other women look a little uncomfortable. The moments before a response are excruciatingly long.

"A little yeah." Catalina's voice is sombre. "Nothing I wanted to know though." There's something broken in her tone, and it doesn't take much for Cathy to figure out what's gotten to her like that. And there's nothing Cathy can do to alleviate that.

Of course Catalina won't want her to be any kind of Goddaughter. She'd only be some pathetic imitation of what she'd lost. An insult to any positive memory she had left.

"No." Cathy replies, her voice conveying more hurt than she intended. "Me neither."

They fall into uncomfortable silence again, and Cathy mentally kicks herself. She prays that someone else gets here soon to relieve this discomfort between them all. Cathy had come here ready to be a mediator between a group of women she expected would be all too ready to fight each other. But there doesn't seem to be much fight left in them so far.


	10. Reunions- pt.2

Anna and Kitty head out of the apartment after a short nap. Kitty hasn't felt safe in a long time, but spending the night with Anna gave her the chance to let her guard down for a while, and it's refreshing. 

And as they walk towards their destination, Anna navigating haphazardly with her phone, Kitty takes a moment to bask in the morning sun. The city of London looks bizarre to her now; so much has changed. The streets are lined with traffic that appears to be almost at a stand-still. Kitty wonders what these vehicles are useful for if they are only going to be stuck there. 

She smiles at her friend as the two of them go back on themselves after another wrong turn. This new world is confusing, and certainly scary, but with her friend at her side, Kitty is confident she can tackle it head-on. They'll surely have a much better go at it now neither of them are married to a King. That had turned out to be quite an obstacle to their friendship.

She wants things to be better this time. They have to be. If she lost her friend again, it would crush the last bit of fight in her. After all she's been through, what Kitty needs more than anything is to have someone in her corner, for once. She wants to say this to Anna; to explain just how much it means to have her here, but she can't. She doesn't want to scare her off, or put too much pressure on her. She only wants Anna to stay. 

As if hearing her thoughts, Anna gently links her arm with Kitty's.

"It's just round this corner, I think."

They approach the little grey building, and both jump back a little when the door opens itself. They giggle at each other and head in, towards the room they were told to go to.

It's silent—perhaps they're the first ones there? Anna pushes to door of room 3 open gently, only to be greeted with three other women already waiting on the other side. All three bodies turn to look at them, and Kitty shrinks back behind her friend. She feels a little guilty, but Anna has always been more of a socialite. If there's anyone who can get this meeting off to a good start, it's her.

"Hi." Anna addresses the room with a confident smile. "And I thought _we_ were gonna be early. Looks like half of us are here already."

"Just the two." One of the others replies, she's got dark curly hair piled on top of her head, and she looks a bit older than Kitty, though most of them are, to be fair.

"Well, that depends on who the two of you are." The tallest adds, raising an eyebrow. She has a dignified and aloof manner, though Kitty can see the cracks starting to form in her facade.

"Ah, yeah. Introductions, right." Despite the inherent awkwardness of the current situation, Anna is rolling with the punches and maintaining her poise. Kitty doesn't know how she does it.

"Well then, I'm Anna. Cleves, I mean." She flashes a charming smile to the room. 

"Anna?" The only woman who's yet to speak perks up then. Anna looks at her, confused. "It's-I- Bessie." The woman continues, less than eloquently, though Kitty entirely understands her struggle—especially when Anna conducts herself with such confidence.

Anna throws herself at the woman, and they embrace each other, tightly.

"I-How did you?" Anna's voice is ecstatic, but it's clear she shares Kitty's confusion.

"Same as you, I think." Kitty watches the two of them, and feels the slightest pang of jealousy, despite herself. It's followed by guilt. She shouldn't begrudge Anna having other close friends, she knows that. It's entirely unfair. It's just that Anna is the only person she has right now. They're ugly feelings, and she pushes them away. She has to trust that Anna still cares about her; of course she does.

It takes her a moment to notice the four sets of eyes that are focused on her. She realises, in that moment, that she's not simply watching this scene play out. She's a part of it. She's supposed to be participating in it. 

Oops.

"Sorry." It's a classic move from her; starting with an apology. "Um, Katherine. Howard. Should probably be more specific."

"Ah, we've collected all three, then." The one with the curls says, in an attempt to keep the conversation going. "Cathy Parr, number six." She reaches a hand towards Kitty, and Kitty doesn't know at that point just how desperate Cathy is for her to just take it. 

She shakes it, gently. She's not so sure of herself. 

"Aragon." The tall one says, bluntly. She gives a tight-lipped smile in Kitty's direction, and Kitty wonders if she's done something wrong, or if there's something else going on there. 

Kitty hates situations like this. So many people, all with their own hidden opinions and issues that they won't disclose. It's so hard to navigate, and she's constantly worried that she's doing something wrong without realising.

"So we're just waiting for Seymour, Boleyn and the other Ladies, then?" Anna tries to redirect the conversation.

"This is gonna be a long day, isn't it?" Aragon observes. She looks like she'd rather still be dead than be here right now. Kitty isn't sure if it's because she's uncomfortable being around the many women her husband had left her for, or if there's something more that's gotten to her. 

Cathy looks hesitant. She's rocking back and forth on her tiptoes, as if there's something she wants to do or say but she's too afraid. It's clear to Kitty that she's on edge; she seems like a ball of anxious energy. 

Kitty gives her a small smile—something to say she understands—and the woman smiles back, accompanied by a cheeky wink. Kitty feels a little more relaxed, with the thought that she's at least not alone in her apprehension.

That's when the door opens again, and Kitty has to mentally prepare herself to adjust to three more new people.

* * *

As she approaches the door of the room they've been directed to, Maria hisses at the other two to cease their bickering. They've been sassing each other back and forth the entire walk, and she's beginning to wish she'd come in earlier with Bessie.

The door creaks loudly as she pushes, and Maria curses it as all five heads in the room whip round to look at her.

"Ah, I was wondering when you lazy lot would show up." Bessie wears a smug grin as the three of them file in, and Maggie takes a few seats from the stack in the corner for them. It doesn't seem like anyone has considered their seating situation yet; they'd all been stood stiffly around the room until now. 

"Rude." Joan rebukes.

"Right, we should probably, um..." Maria trails off, nervous. Is Catalina already here? She scans all the faces in the room, but seeing as she couldn't recognise her own face this morning, she doesn't fancy her chances. 

"Margaret- um- Maggie. I prefer Maggie."

From there, they go around the room, as each of them introduces themselves, until there are only two of them left. Maria is desperately trying to read the expression of the other woman, but she's always been awful at that. The height, usually would be a dead giveaway. But they've all changed since then. This new woman is tall, and Maria isn't sure how she would deal with Catalina being taller than her. She urges her mind to stop wandering, and makes her introduction.

"M-Maria de Salinas." She says, plainly, holding her head high in an effort to exude a confidence she doesn't really feel.

She doesn't get a verbal response. She doesn't need one. She's almost tackled to the floor barely a second after the words leave her lips. 

And she doesn't need the other woman to say her name, because she already knows. She should have known earlier. Now that she does, there's a million things she notices that just scream 'Catalina.' 

She returns the tight hug she's receiving, and the two of them are speaking animated Spanish back and forth. About how long they've been apart, how they'd never thought to see each other again. Maria tries to hold back her emotions as she holds her oldest friend again, and can't help remembering the last time she did the same.

Before she knows it, her cheeks are wet and her breaths are coming in sobs. They must look like sentimental fools.

But, hey, that's what they are.

* * *

Cathy watches the reunion wistfully. It's sweet, really. To imagine a friendship that's survived so much. But it hurts, too. Just like it had hurt when she'd seen Anna and Katherine. It's silly, really, to compare herself. But she's plagued by the notion that she _doesn't_ have that. She never has.

It fills her with longing. To have someone she could lean on; confide in. To share her thoughts and feelings and know they would be understood. She wants, so desperately, to talk about last night. How she had felt; how what she had found about her daughter's demise had devastated her. How she'd hit rock bottom and wasn't sure if she'd found her way back yet. How Anna's phone call had been a life line in a moment of darkness. 

But she can't. She has no one. She wants so badly to reach out, and to be seen. But everybody has somebody; she knows that. They might not all know each other well, but each of them has someone else to lean on. Except Cathy. No one needs her. It would just be rude of her to force herself between them, when they were so close already. 

She wouldn't be wanted. She feels like a fool for getting her hopes up in the first place. Looking at the happiness, and the sadness, and the _love _on Catalina's face now, she thinks how stupid she had been to even imagine them growing close. 

Because that was real. The two of them. Companionship forged through some of the darkest periods of their lives. And who was she? Just some stranger who'd been named for her years after the fact. She had no real connection to them all. She'll be best off just letting this meeting come to an end and going her own way. 

Easier to have a clean break than to drag out the inevitable. Minimise her own suffering.

The seemingly endless barrage of self-deprecating thoughts is interrupted by the grating squeak of the door once again, and the other women's reverie is cut short by their latest newcomer.


End file.
